"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that
car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in
the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I
averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle. "I saw the car,
Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and
steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned
away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went
outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a
promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon.
He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against
the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had
placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested
to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he
couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased
him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a
younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a
heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic
administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was
rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside
Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad
was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us
on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed
nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated
and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker
and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each
session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months
wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray
sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being
had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the
tiny human being on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't
answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I
sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health
clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the
sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one
of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help
you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article
described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were
under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved
dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I
filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor
of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs,
spotted dogs-all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected
one after the other for various reasons-too big, too small, too much hair. As I
neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his
feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the
dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had
etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in
lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm
and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can you
tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate.
We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was
two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He
gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror.
"You mean you're going to kill him?" "Ma'am," he said
gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed
dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my
decision. "I'll take him," I said. I drove home with the dog on the
front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was
helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly. Dad looked,
then wrinkled his face in disgust.
"If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one.
And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it!
I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the
house. Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded
into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"
Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words
Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and
blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when
suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and
sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's
lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the
anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees
hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate
friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored
the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent
reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even
started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne
lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next
three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.
Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing
through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I
woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed,
his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I
discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in
the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing
hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring
Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and
dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the
aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends
Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It
was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the
pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain
strangers."
I've often thanked God for sending that angel,"
he said. For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had
not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article ...
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter, his calm acceptance and
complete devotion to my father ... and the proximity of their deaths. And
suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
(Catherine Moore)
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